


Indulgence

by facetofcathy



Category: CW Network RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: 1000-3000 words, Alternate Universe - No Spouse, Established Relationship, Kink, M/M, Sex Positive, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-15
Updated: 2009-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-04 11:13:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/facetofcathy/pseuds/facetofcathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of two men who work on a TV show together and enjoy a fluidly kinky relationship.  Fluid in terms of dynamics, that is, rather than, er, fluid.  And kinky in terms of dynamics, as well, rather than acts.</p><p>This is the story of what happens when one of them has a lot more free time than the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indulgence

There had been an awkward conversation over coffee. Jensen had been slowly shaking off the effects of a dream that had woken him with a jolt, while Jared had been vibrantly awake and sweat-soaked, post-run. Jensen had made the mistake of asking him what he was going to do with his day off, and Jared had said some things that shaded into bitterness about just how few minutes of film the top billed-star of the show needed to lay down each week. Jensen had picked silence as the better part of a valorous answer and had met his ride in the driveway.

Jensen had directed the driver to swing by the hotel and pick up Misha, and they'd run lines, clutching their coffee tightly, laughing too loud. The imperfect familiarity had gnawed at Jensen's nerves, leaving him off his game before he'd really gotten started.

The day's filming had been frustrating and exhilarating and demanding and physically exhausting, when it wasn't boring. All his triumphs had passed unshared and his failures unmocked until a haze of irritation had crept in and taken hold in his mind.

Jared had sent one text explaining he was trying one of Sandy's old tricks for annihilating a bad mode by having a spa day, and then he'd gone radio silent for ten hours.

Jensen punched in the lock code for the door while trying again to imagine what Jared would consider a spa day. It was possible he'd meant it literally, and he would be all cleanly waxed and smoothly peeled, buffed and polished, and Jensen would be able to make Turtle Wax jokes so the awkward could be overrun with laughter for a while. It was possible he'd meant he was going to laze around all day without showering so he'd be rank and gassy and hungover, and possibly still drunk, at all of 8 o'clock in the evening.

The silent foyer offered no clues beyond its silence. No television or stereo or video game sound drifted in from the living room.

Jensen stepped into the kitchen. A greasy bowl and the lingering stink of microwave popcorn testified to some snacking. An empty mustard jar and a scatter of crumbs where the bread bag had been told the story of sandwiches made and consumed. "It's CSI: Jared," Jensen muttered, searching the far corners of the refrigerator for something to drink that didn't have the word energy on the label; his had drained away to the point that no neon-coloured beverage could redeem.

He drank the orange juice nearly dry, meanly put it back in with only a swallow left, imagining Jared grabbing it in the morning, well-rested from his day off and oozing vitality after his run. "I am a petty son of a bitch sometimes."

Jensen had been managing simultaneous envy and sympathy for Jared's reduced work load for the last few weeks. Today, the envy had blossomed along with the ache in his right shoulder and the very large bruise on his left thigh. The sympathy had withered under the poison sun of his dissatisfaction with his performance, the rain, and the number of takes required to film him wandering down an empty street. He'd felt Jared's absence pointedly, several times, and he'd reacted with snappishness and hostility, misdirected and unsatisfying both.

He felt Jared's absence even more keenly surrounded by evidence of his presence. He moved into the living room and saw signs of the sort of lazy use that Jared pursued with the same intensity he applied to more vigorous activity. A pillow and blanket were on the sofa; game controllers and remotes were scattered across the coffee table, along with a dirty glass, a sniff test confirmed that it had held tequila, and a half empty bag of Doritos. Jensen picked up the bag and finished the chips while he searched for more clues.

He found the dogs, coats glossy and fluffed, looking satiated amidst the remnants of a couple of bones of prodigious size. Jared hadn't kept his indulgences completely selfish then. They barely raised their heads as Jensen passed through the room and headed upstairs.

The upstairs bathroom was adorned with wet towels and a discarded bathrobe. The counter was covered in tubes and bottles and implements of all sorts—the full kit of a modern Hollywood male. The humid air was saturated with so many scents, apricot the top note, and some deep spicy cologne the bottom, that Jensen couldn't imagine an actual spa topping the sensory experience of just standing in the doorway.

The hallway was quiet; Jensen would have thought Jared wasn't home if the alarm hadn't been shut off. The door to Jared's room stood open, soft light from the bedside lamp inviting further investigation. Jensen stepped into the doorway.

He saw Jared, sprawled on the bed asleep, and then the smell hit, and Jensen breathed deep of the scent of sweat and come, male animal and apricot and spice—the component parts of Jared and sex, comfortably familiar and intoxicating.

It took Jensen a moment to see the evidence, laid out for him here, of the indulgences that had taken place in this room. It all looked casually placed, like the other detritus spread around the house, but Jensen's gut was telling him that none of this stage dressing was anything but intentional, from the proverbial bread crumbs to this final tableau. The dresser was covered in a towel liberated from the bathroom. Arranged on it were the large, blue, vibrating plug that Jared liked best, the even larger, hard, black silicone dildo that Jensen himself favoured when the occasion called for it, and the unyielding, shiny stainless steel, art-house monster of a toy that Jared had paid a silly amount of money for. The inference was easy to make—all had been enjoyed already.

Jared hadn't moved, and Jensen had barely made a sound, but he knew Jared was aware of him, knew the sleeping pose was an act; there was the most subtle tension visible in the long lines of his body. He was as carefully displayed as the toys were—face down, arms crooked to leave his hands framing his head, his right leg bent at the knee, his left splayed out to the side. The black end of a plug was visible between his ass cheeks. Jensen recognized it as the one that was too short to hit Jared's prostate, the one he'd called a dirty rotten tease the one time they'd used it, before he'd pitched it across the room.

Jensen hovered in the doorway. He took a deep noisy breath again, enjoying his own self-administered tease. A condom and a bottle of lube lay on the bed between Jared's spread legs, testimony to what he wanted as the final, shared, indulgence of his day. Jared did like to share. Jensen wanted something just for himself though, some recompense for the burning aches and dull throbbing frustrations of the day, none of them Jared's doing, but none of them eased by his presence either. It was unfair, far worse than the petty trick with the juice, but he thought Jared must understand, must have chosen this scene to give Jensen a chance to take what he needed, no mater how base the need.

Jensen leaned against the door frame, let the door swing open a little more, hinges creaking. He scuffed his feet on the carpet, the rasp of cloth on fibre loud in the silent room. Jared broke, finally, groaning and lifting his ass in wanton invitation. Jensen cupped his groin, and then eased open his jeans before things became uncomfortable. He laughed at Jared, pitching the sound just this side of cruel, and said, "I know what you want, Jared. I just don't know if I want to give it to you."

"Please," Jared said, arching his back and spreading his legs wider.

Jensen stepped into the room, bent as if he was only now seeing the significance in the choice of plug. "Oh, the short one, nice. Must be driving you mad by now, right? Not quite hitting the spot, no matter what you do?" He laughed again, watched Jared buck and grind in a display of futile perseverance, listened to his frantic pleading.

Jensen savoured the words, the desperation, the edge of almost panic in Jared's voice, the perfect pitch of near belief that Jensen would leave him to stew like this, and refusal to fully admit that he might. Some other night, when Jensen wasn't in the grip of so much lust and other simpler wants—the desire to taste Jared's skin, the need to feel the heat of his body, the softness of his skin—he might choose that careful walk on the tightrope of tension and control and mutual torment.

"Please," Jared said again, voice rough and demanding, and Jensen didn't want to wait any longer.

He shoved his jeans open enough to get his cock out, covered and slicked. He reached for the plug, and paused, letting his hands drop to the hot, smooth skin. He flexed his fingers, kneading the curve of muscle, and his instinct, or maybe just his habit, was to rein in the need to just fuck into Jared until he couldn't feel anything else, temper his lust with the force of his will.

Jared moaned again, hungry sounding, and arched up into his hands. "Come on," he said, plea and taunt both.

It was the taunt that made Jensen pull the plug out of Jared's ass with a quick tug that made him grunt, and Jensen pressed in deep and hard and fast. He pinned Jared hard with his hands, hard enough to mark, and then he shifted his grip on the slick hot skin and fucked into Jared as hard as he had ever done before. Jensen had to stop and peel out of his shirt; the room was extravagantly warm, and Jensen imagined Jared spending the day wandering the house naked in the luscious heat, fondling his cock idly as he lounged around, planning this scene, drinking enough to relax completely, getting himself off more than once, all while Jensen worked in the cold and the rain. He didn't want to rein himself in anymore, didn't want to hold back the deeper, baser instincts.

"Come on," Jared said again, and this time it sounded like permission.

He wanted to give in, to just let go, and he felt it like a physical thing, like a lifting of a heavy hand from his neck. He was lighter, looser, and he had his energy back, bright and hot and electric, and he upped the pace, held on tighter, harder and fucked Jared until the burn of his leg muscles subsumed the other niggling pains in his body, the stench of sex and sweat and the noises Jared made defined the edges of the world. The tension and irritation he'd worn like armour melted away. He only needed to thrust deeper, harder. He felt like he was falling. He felt like he was hurling himself from a great height, fearless, ecstatic. Coming was his only need now, his singular purpose.

He didn't want to move, so he stayed in an untidy sprawl and relished the chill of the sweat cooling on his body. He let Jared strip the rest of the clothes off his body, barely stirred himself to assist, let Jared wash him clean and cover him with the sheet; it was too hot for anything else, and Jensen thought it might be all of 9:30 at the latest, but he had no needs left unfulfilled He let himself drift. He dreamed he was floating down a river of warm water. It tasted of salt, and the air smelled of apricots, and he knew that if he wanted to, he could fly up into the dense and humid air without fear of falling.


End file.
